


A window shut

by mayfire



Category: Disco Elysium (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Frottage, M/M, One-Sided Attraction, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Pre-Canon, Spit As Lube, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-15 11:13:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28937571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mayfire/pseuds/mayfire
Summary: The air in the room is cloying and dusty, walls too close together, and the only window is shut. Jean wishes he didn’t have the strength to look at Harry at that moment, but he does.
Relationships: Harry Du Bois/Jean Vicquemare
Comments: 8
Kudos: 25





	A window shut

**Author's Note:**

> This is a ficlet based on the illustration I made earlier (explicit) https://twitter.com/notsafemayfire/status/1352679159496126466?s=20  
> Harry isn't nice here...  
> Enjoy~

Through the walls of one of the few secluded offices, which was mostly used as an archive room these days, in the C-wing of the 41st precinct a muffled voice gains volume:

“You can’t just hit a suspect, Harry, especially because of a fucking voice in your head!”

The wooden door flings open, rattling the few picture frames on the plastered walls. Harrier du Bois, a 40 year old lieutenant yefreitor, has his hand on the doorknob. He gestures with his head for his partner to enter the room, mussed hair swinging with the abrupt motion. Jean bites his tongue and exhales harshly through the flared nostrils. Like a bull lead to its enclosure before a corrida. 

Still, the satellite-officer steps into the room, stifling and dusty. He wishes somebody bothered to open the window here. He wishes he could get to the bathrooms to wash his sweaty face. He wishes he didn’t have to have this argument with Harry again.

While Jean is running his hand over his face in silence, Harry closes the door and turns to face him. His partner doesn’t budge, breathing steadily in and out, calming himself before an inevitable storm. Before Harry has the chance to talk, Jean beats him to it:

“Why did you hit that man?” His voice is barely steady as he carefully articulates the syllables.

“Because,” Harry starts, looking at the back of his partner’s head, “he killed them and–”

“*How* do you know,” Jean asks in a tone too flat to be a question.

“He–” the lieutenant contemplates his options, “–smirked at me.”

Jean’s shoulders rise and he slowly turns to Harry, sad pale eyes sharp under the furrowed brow. In moments like these Harry has to fight himself to not break the contact and hang his head in shame. 

“What you’re saying is,” Jean speaks just above a whisper, “that the suspect, whom we’ve been interrogating for 3 days already,–”

He started closing the distance between them, and speaks the last words in his superior’s face, anger dripping off the rough edges of his voce:

“–looked at you funny?!”

Harry’s face tensed, hackles rising.

“That *fucker* killed three people and had the *gall* to smile at me!” His voice boomed in the small room, making Jean’s ears ring. He would’ve been more concerned if not the familiar acidic stench hitting his nose. Jean’s eyes dart to Harry’s mouth, still curled downwards, then back to his eyes.

“Are you fucking drunk?!”

“Not enough.”

“NOT EN–” Jean has to squeeze his eyes shut. Harry observes the complicated summersaults his thoughts must be doing, making his eyebrows twitch and the pockmarked skin wrinkle.

“Harry,” he lifts his chin up, eyes still closed, “you piece of shit. The unit will float stomach up if you continue this bullshit!”

“Jean,” the lieutenant’s hand lands on the satellite-officer’s shoulder. Jean’s eyes snap open. “This,” Harry shoves his partner hard enough for him to take a step back. Harry follows.

“Is my,” push. Step.

“Crime unit,” push. Step.

“And it will–” push. Jean’s behind hits something, his hand lands on a solid surface. A table.

“–go down when I go down. Until then,” he pauses, arms coming to rest on the edge of the table, locking Jean in. Almost perching on the table, Jean leans his body back. Harry can be imposing, he can be a complete lunatic one minute and a bloodhound the other. The word “scary” still feels unfamiliar in Jean’s long list of Harrier-epithets. So he takes the rapid beat of his heart to be something else, something he wishes was anger. Harry’s gaze in the meanwhile quickly scans Jean’s figure below him, its uncomplicated path looping back to Jean’s eyes.

“...Until then we detect...” He seems to be calculating something, previous thought trailing off to never be complete.

When Jean senses the weight and the heat of Harry’s palm on his hip he nearly flinches, air coming out in a puff from his surprised mouth. He looks down at the hand, at the thick thumb resting just above the tuck of his shirt. Jean feels dizzy all of a sudden from the sensations overwhelming his brain. The back of his dress-shirt sticking to the sweat between his shoulder blades, the pen he didn’t notice being on the tabletop digging into his palm. The dust-heavy, cloying air of the small room trapped between his and Harry’s chests. Harry’s cologne clashing with the smell of sweat, alcohol, and tobacco. The light illuminating one side of his face, his tired but now intensely focused eye and a corner of his thin lips. The palm on Jean’s hip seems to burn straight to his groin.

Jean slowly raises his left hand to rest it on Harry’s forearm and runs his thumb along the groove of the inner elbow, which Harry interprets as encouragement. His fingers dig into the meat of Jean’s side and drag up, pulling the side of his shirt out of the trousers. Jean exhales loudly and manages to creak out:

“Harry, your shirt.”

“Uh?”

“You take off your shirt first,” it occurs to him briefly that he sounds insecure, but with Harry pressing close to Jean’s crotch and already undoing the top buttons of his own shirt (striped, flashy, a sore in the eye), Jean hurriedly unbuttons his.

As he untucks the shirt, Harry has already thrown his on the floor and now makes quick work of sliding Jean’s over his shoulders, rough hands caressing the sticky skin on their way. Shirt crumpled behind him, Jean gasps at the press of Harry’s erection against his, the thought on itself making his pulse jump. He wriggles his wrists out of the shirt-cuffs just in time to catch himself from losing balance by grabbing Harry’s neck as the man pulls him in.

“Fuck!” Jean swears when his partner’s mouth finds a sensitive spot on his neck, and tangles his fingers in Harry’s long hair. 

He tugs at it reflexively and hears Harry stifle a moan in his neck. Jean’s hips twitch forward, rubbing his hardening dick against Harry. He rolls his hips more deliberately this time, swearing quietly. This makes the lieutenant stop mouthing at Jean’s neck and slide his hands down to Jean’s butt. Suddenly, not having the time to linger on the regret of not having hot breath over his skin, Jean feels Harry lifting him up that last bit to fully sit on the table, stacks of files and binders shifting to the back, the shirt now ruined. Something rolled off with a sad clack onto the floor.

Harry looks at Jean, and runs his hands up his stomach and to the collarbones, flats of his palms following the arch of the ribs and the bulge of his pecs. Usually Jean would be uncomfortable with someone looking at his marred skin, but his partner doesn’t seem to mind at all. Harry’s hot hands leave the feeling of coolness, rapidly fading in Jean’s own rising heat. Harry’s face and chest are red, and Jean assumes his are too.

When Harry’s palm finally presses to Jean’s erection and glides along its length, Jean lets out a noise from deep in his lungs.

“Fuck. Harry. Just–”

“What?” Harry continues to stroke Jean as he’s bent down, wetly kissing his chest.

“Stop jerking me off in my trou-ah-sers, asshole.”

“You mean…” Harry lifts his head, looking quizzically.

“Dick out, Mullen!” It would’ve sounded funnier if Jean wasn’t distracted by the way Harry’s hands reach for his belt. For the sake of not lagging behind – as well as finally taking off his pants –, Jean tugs at the belt in his trousers and undoes the buttons. He manages to push both his trousers and underwear down enough to have access to his cock, a short relief. He looks at Harry’s crotch, hairy as the rest of him, erection bobbing slightly with the movement, as he positions himself between Jean’s legs again, pushing them apart.

“Scoot closer, baby,” the side-grin on Harry’s face appears, an artificial thing meant to charm, and Jean must really not be getting enough oxygen to his brain if he is charmed by it (just this once).

“Don’t you fucking call me that,” He protests out of habit.

Harry’s left hand nestles over Jean’s buttock and pulls, sliding Jean’s legs towards Harry. He nearly topples but catches himself.

“Ay! Dickhead, stop moving me arou–” The rest of the sentence gets stuck in his throat when Harry presses their cocks together, holding them both in one hand.

“Ah,” is all Jean can comment on that.

The hand does an experimental stroke, then lifts to Harry’s face. He spits in the centre of his palm and closes the fingers around both of their erections once more, spreading the saliva before trying to pump again. It feels good this time, more intense than masturbating.

Jean’s head lolls to the side as Harry starts jerking them off in earnest, soft panting spilling out involuntarily. The hot line of his partner’s dick against his and the press of that hand seep the edge of Jean’s anger and replace it with a familiar anticipation. Harry’s grip is still firm on Jean’s hip and the muscles of his right arm flex enticingly. He grunts and huffs, hair falling on his forehead, strands catching the yellow light. Jean puts his hand on Harry’s elbow again, and feels real. 

The movement of Harry’s arm speeds up, a slick sound of skin friction filling the bubble they’ve created. The worldview keeps narrowing down to the three points of contact. Jean looks at his partner’s closed eyes, big nose, and parted lips. He’s seen that mouth firm and grim, stretched in a smirk, wobbly and wet from tears. He doesn’t know how to forget the image of it slack, beads of sweat on the upper lip collecting into droplets.

Both men get lost in the building sensation, exchanging nonsense expletives and praise alike. Jean feels bold, or rather too far-gone to care, and brings his hand up to Harry’s nape.

“Harry…”

“Yeah?”

“Are you–” Jean’s hand covers the back of Harry’s head, fingers burying in the wet hair.

“Yes, yes I – uh – I am.”

Jean pulls Harry’s head up with force, eliciting a loud deep moan, the lieutenant’s hand stutters and speeds up once more. Jean lifts himself up to Harry’s outstretched neck and kisses the prominent cartilage. Harry’s hand resting on Jean’s hip tries to move him closer, but only succeeds in arching Jean’s back more. The need in his groin is almost unbearable by now, Jean angles Harry’s head down and rests their foreheads against each other. Harry is babbling.

“Yes, baby, come on, come on...”

Jean cums with a cut-off shout, release almost blinding. Harry’s hand is still moving fast, fingers now covered in sperm spilling in bursts. After a moment, his words jumble and reduce to a few last gasps before his own orgasm hits. Semen covers Jean’s stomach, but he doesn’t move for the handkerchief in the pocket of his trousers yet. Jean focuses his eyes on the face right in front of him, sees the eyelids slowly relax. Harry moves his head away, eyes hooded and pupils blown wide. He removes his hand from around their cocks and studies it briefly, catching his breath.

“Hey, Jean, do you–”

“Yeah, yeah,” Jean half-lays down on his side and fishes out a folded piece of fabric. “Just in case a superior officer decides to have his wicked ways with me while at work.”

“Well,” Harry takes the handkerchief and wipes his hand with it, then Jean’s stomach, pulling at the hairs a bit. The gesture strikes him as weirdly intimate and he swallows at the pang in his chest. Harry, however, continues:

“Let’s not let this happen again then.”

The air in the room is cloying and dusty, walls too close together, and the only window is shut. Jean wishes he didn’t have the strength to look at Harry at that moment, but he does. Harry backs off, face so guilty it makes Jean want to punch him, if not for the post-orgasmic buzz between his every synapse. Jean tucks himself back in the underwear.

“Get dressed, Harrier.”

Harry hurriedly makes himself decent and ducks for his discarded shirt. He looks at it, biting at his cheek, eyes darting as if along invisible lines.

“I’m sorry,” he says finally, “for punching that asshole.”

Jean tucks the end of his belt into a proper loop. “What?”

“Are you fucking serious right now?!” Jean’s eyes are wide, then all expression leaves his face. “Get the fuck out of here.”

Harry opens and closes his mouth like a fish before its head is chopped off. He puts his shirt on and buttons up, and Jean is glad that he doesn’t mention the handkerchief. The door behind him closes, rattling the few picture frames on the plastered walls.

Jean turns to the window and pulls a string to lift the blinds. With a few tries, the wooden window frame gives in and creaks open. The evening air rushes in with distant noises and the smell of the river. Jean shifts his weight onto the elbows, lets his head fall into the open palms, and breathes it in.


End file.
